


Le premier et le dernier|The First and the Last

by FLWhite



Series: mes fils stupides [1]
Category: SKAM (France)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, First Time, Frottage, Hand Jobs, M/M, Resolved Sexual Tension, Romantic Fluff, reference to crying kink, reference to feminization kink, silliness abounds
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-07
Updated: 2019-03-07
Packaged: 2019-11-13 06:13:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18026276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FLWhite/pseuds/FLWhite
Summary: "Lucas," Eliott says, his eyes opaque in the twilit murk of the room, his half-dried hair a tufted golden crown. He puts his hands over Lucas's, guides them slowly up and up, lets them rest with fingertips meeting over his breastbone, then jerks his shirt over his head. "Lucas.""Yeah?"Eliott regards him silently for a beat, then grins, dipping his head. "You are losing the race."*Missing scenes between Vendredi 20:27 and Samedi 09:17.A dark and stormy night plus two teenage boys simmering for weeks in escalating sexual tension equals the pornography that even the French won't show on TV, amirite?(I know Lucas says to Mika that they "didn't have—" after he spent his first night with Eliott, but all sense and reason tell me that SOMEBODY had to have gotten off.)





	Le premier et le dernier|The First and the Last

**Author's Note:**

> Shameless self-promotion: check out my [Tumblr](http://xiangyu.tumblr.com). Bisous~

*

**FRIDAY 21:44**

Though the rain beats more and more heavily on them, Lucas can't seem to stop the kissing until lightning flashes so nearby, accompanied shortly by such a rattling roar of thunder, that he jumps involuntarily within the tight ring of Eliott's arms. "Fuck!"

" _Definitely_ scared," Eliott drawls, again putting his mouth on Lucas's left ear, "of thunderstorms." He chortles quietly as Lucas struggles.

Lucas tries to put some steel into his voice, but it comes out all wobbly. "We're gonna—gonna get fucking _struck down_ under all these trees." He swallows; Eliott has resumed attack on his ear, but he jerks away before Eliott's tongue can get any more ideas. "C' _mon_. And it's getting cold." He crosses his arms. If Eliott starts putting a hand up his shirt again, it is over. They'd be fried into charred husks still joined at the mouth.

He thinks briefly of an image from some long-ago book about Pompeii he'd written a report on in _sixième_. It petrified him at the time, people smothered together in an instant. But the idea makes him feel weirdly tingly now.

"Ah, fine," the corners of Eliott's eyes are too crinkled for him to seem at all convincingly put out. Lucas tries not to look too closely, but his gaze, fleeing, catches on at Eliott's slightly swollen lower lip anyway. "I guess if we ended up in the news we'd be proving the Bible-thumpers right. Well then," he drops into a whisper, and the tingle in Lucas's belly makes a rapid descent into parts already painfully chafed against seams and zippers, causing their owner to curse under his breath.

He had thought about wearing boxers for the evening, because in his limited experience, or really, his furtive peering into girls' magazines at the convenience store, girls like Chloé liked boxers, but no, some devil between his ears, or more likely between his thighs, told him to pick the tightest boxer briefs in his drawer, and he'd hastily squeezed himself into them before the devil could tell him who might prefer those.

"Where're we gonna go?"

"My place? Farther, um—but—" He braces, getting ready to say the girls' names.

"Of course." Eliott bends slightly. His lashes are low, his mouth red. "One more kiss for the road."

*

**FRIDAY 21:58**

Dashing, they catch a bus just before its doors close. The driver eyes them with some suspicion as they, dripping, wriggle out their transit passes from their pockets. It's a full enough bus that they have to stand. Lucas settles himself against a stanchion, discreetly trying to use it to cool or slow the heat of the pulse jumping in his hard-on. Eliott unhelpfully anchors himself at a definitively inappropriate distance behind Lucas, but the bus begins moving before Lucas can do anything about it. Warmth curls outward so intensely from Eliott that Lucas expects to see his clothes steaming; Eliott's hot, soft, but nonetheless insistent breath tickles the hairs on Lucas's nape.

It will be a very uncomfortable twenty-five minutes.

Lucas chews the inside of his mouth, gazes at his own dim reflection in the window as the yellows and reds of car lights slither past in the downpour. When there's no evidence of anyone noticing them standing like they're conjoined twins, Lucas allows himself to breathe a little and lift his eyes slightly, but he draws a panicked breath when he sees Eliott's reflection staring at him in the window. That sharp blue look is stripped and stark against Eliott's hair and jacket, each robbed of their usual softening volume and darkened by the rain. The reflection's flawless mouth moves infinitesimally. "Cold?"

With great effort, Lucas manages a grunt of denial. He is actually very cold. He feels frozen from his unblinking eyelids down to the soles of his feet, planted narrowly, a Sisyphean effort to squeeze his arousal away. The only bit of him still warm and alive is his _goddamn_ dick _._

He can't move. He can't stop looking at Eliott's reflection. They are barely a third of the way to the apartment. _Shit_. _Shit_.

The bus squeaks and shivers, halting at a red light. Lucas tries to breathe deeply through his nose.

"Here." Eliott shrugs and tugs at his jacket until it slides free. Somehow he still manages to look as graceful as a young panther doing this, though drops of rain sprinkle everywhere from the jacket's hem and cuffs, though his hair is falling into his eyes. In the bus window, his arms, one stretched to an overhead handle and the other grasping the same stanchion Lucas is clinging to, look very pale against the void-dark of his t-shirt, tight and wet against his body.

Lucas has to shut his eyes for a breath before he can reply. Turning to look at Eliott directly is completely out of the question. "No, I'm fine."

"It's all right. Yours is thin." Eliott's smile is a sheet of lightning striking whitely inside Lucas. He's too dazed to do anything as the weight of the jacket settles on his shoulders. It's comically large. He feels, distantly, that he should be upset—that this is what girls look like with their boys, maybe what Lucille looks like with Eliott—but the heavy twill _is_ warm and strangely soft and it _does_ smell like Eliott and _fuck_ if he isn't about to come in these stupid boxer briefs, on this stupid bus, in front of all these stupid people.

And then _stupid_ Eliott, completely casually, goes and slides his free arm around Lucas's waist under the jacket, his fingers tickling Lucas's ribs, and finally a last instinct of self-preservation kicks in and Lucas lets go of the stanchion, throws himself to the right, thumping against the plastic bulwark behind the driver but successfully evading Eliott's hand.

"Hold on to something!" the driver snaps, rolling her eyes at them in her rearview mirror. Eliott chuckles, pats Lucas's shoulder. "You heard her."

"Fuck you," Lucas mumbles, then regrets it when Eliott chuckles again and—the nerve— _nods_ at him. He settles for fixing his eyes on the notices of route changes and fare increases framed on the back of the bulwark as though they were immeasurably intriguing, but at the next light he does sway a little when the bus brakes, and Eliott plants the rib-tickling hand on the bulwark, over a small sticker warning that assaults of transit personnel are a misdemeanor offense, so that his elbow barely grazes Lucas's right shoulder.

After some minutes of this, Lucas again relaxes. At last the tension in the crotch of his jeans is easing a little. He sneaks a look sidelong in the window: Eliott's face is turned away, gazing out the front of the bus. And then, with only three stops to go, a herd of inebriated Americans ten or twelve strong boards through the front doors, punctuating their braying laughter with unintelligible jokes of apparently immense comedic value.

It seems to be a bachelorette party; all are women in rain-spattered finery, and one of them has a wilted paper circlet of tumescent penises bleeding neon pink into her bleached hair. They jostle, giggling and failing to insert their bus tickets right-side-up; several of them, the bride-to-be included, eye Eliott with an up-and-down frankness that makes Lucas grit his teeth. "Oh, uh, _pardon_ ," the bride says, blinking up at Eliott as she steps past the young men.

"No pro _blem_." Eliott nods as the bride blinks even faster. He presses himself full-length against Lucas as the other women crowd by; by his huff of breath against the top of Lucas's head, Lucas figures that he is laughing quietly. Eliott's arms now fully encircle Lucas from behind; his left hand, halfway down the stanchion, is pinky-to-forefinger against Lucas's.

Lucas, desperate, mutters, muffling himself in the jacket's collar, "Are bad accents contagious?"

"I think she likes it better this way."

"What a gentleman." This earns Lucas a squeeze between Eliott's arms. He barely bites back a yelp.

"Always."

Lucas's palm begins to sweat as he feels Eliott's fingers, warm, tender, begin to slide over his own around the slick stanchion. "Ah, this is us?" Eliott's hand continues its downward progress, taps the stop-request button nonchalantly; the bus gently squeals to a stop. "Well, let's go."

*

**FRIDAY 22:37**

Lucas hasn't the time to even formulate a single unlikely excuse as they race up the stairwell. Anyway, he thinks—barely—as Eliott kisses him hard on the landing and he struggles to extract his keys from his pocket, that Mika would certainly still be out, and hopefully, please God, he'd have taken Manon, and Lisa should be in bed by now. All he sees once he creaks the door open at last is that the entire apartment is blessedly dark, and they slip into the darkness together like they are desperadoes finally safe.

Lucas gestures Eliott through the door of his room, follows, shuts it, then bends in the amber half-light of the streetlights filtering through the curtains to lock it, startling when he feels Eliott's hands run up his flanks. "Wait, you ass, I gotta—" Eliott advances, wraps himself around Lucas, locks arms around Lucas's middle. "Fucking—" Then Lucas feels a firm, warm, entirely unsubtle _nudge_ against his tailbone and his mouth dries up.

Eliott reaches lazily to the doorknob, puts his fingers over Lucas's, and twists the lock into place. "There."

"I have roommates, two—three—" Eliott is pulling off the twill jacket, letting it fall damply to the floor, and his fingers are already at work on the zipper of Lucas's own jacket underneath. "Eliott!"

"Well, hush, then." Eliott's lips curve upward against Lucas's. He bites them, gently.

"Just—I can take my own clothes off."

"I've got you. Then you can help me, mm? Cooperation." Lucas pivots at this, and with a burst of indignation—he won't be manhandled, he'll show Eliott—digs his fingers into the hem of Eliott's t-shirt and tries, with a tearing tug, to pull it upward. It uncooperatively bunches around Eliott's shoulders, stifling its owner's giggles only a little. The streetlights gild every plane and edge of Eliott's belly, his ribs, the tender tininess of a nipple.

Lucas's mouth somehow grows even drier. His tongue seems to be stuck to his teeth. The hands he raises, drops onto Eliott's hips, and glides along the hot lines of muscle of Eliott's waist feel like they belong to someone else. His vision is trembling at the edges as though he were very drunk, or fevered.

"Lucas," Eliott says, his eyes opaque in the twilit murk of the room, his half-dried hair a tufted golden crown. He puts his hands over Lucas's, guides them slowly up and up, lets them rest with fingertips meeting over his breastbone, then jerks his shirt over his head. " _Lucas_."

"Yeah?"

Eliott regards him silently for a beat, then grins, dipping his head. Lightning flicks again behind Lucas's eyes. "You are losing the race."

"What—race?" Lucas is pulled toward Eliott; losing his balance, his cheek collides with Eliott's chest. In time with the percussion of Eliott's heartbeat, he feels Eliott's hands thrusting in a most ungentlemanly manner under his t-shirt, reaching his underarms, and pulling with inexorable urgency until Lucas throws his arms high overhead, surrendering, and the shirt joins Eliott's on the back of the chair.

"Now you are pulling alongside me, finally."

"A race, huh?" Lucas lets his arms close hard around Eliott, digs his fingertips into the long muscles paralleling Elliot's spine, and, meaning to raise his head to kiss Eliott, finds his mouth atop Eliott's left nipple instead. He closes his lips around it, tentatively, then more firmly as Eliott's entire body flinches around him. "I'm pretty fast," he says around the firming little bud of flesh, and to his delight is able to pull Eliott by the belt loops with him as he backs them toward the bed.

"Wait, ah," Eliott says in a rush. "My pants, they're still wet."

"So?" He discovers that he can make Eliott gasp if he just slightly applies his teeth, so he does.

"And yours too, gonna mess up the bed."

He lets out a guffaw. "Well, isn't that the point?"

"Not like that. We'll get sick." Eliott pries himself free, steps backward, bonelessly leaning against the door. He begins to unbutton his jeans. Lucas, watching without blinking, stiffens at "sick."

"Ah, I don't have—oh shit."

"Hm?" Eliott's tongue has appeared at the corner of his mouth; the jeans, which Lucas had observed to be already very tight before their soaking, are proving recalcitrant. The erection that Lucas is unable to look away from does not seem to be abetting Eliott's efforts. "Have what?"

 _Ugh, God_ , Lucas thinks to himself, feeling the blush expand like scarlet ink in water down his neck. _Get it the fuck together_. "Um, you know, condoms."

Eliott pauses, having finally pulled his jeans clear of his crotch and halfway down his thighs. The waistband of his boxer briefs are also a little dragged down, and a light-brown trail of hair beneath his navel points obscenely toward their contents. "Oh!" Another lightning grin. "Okay."

"What do you mean, 'okay'?" Lucas loathes the hysterical crack of his own voice. "Ah, I might be able to find a couple—they're probably so old though—or Mika might—"

"Hush, hush." Eliott shoves the jeans down to his knees, his shins, kicks one foot free, rids it of its sock. After similarly liberating the other foot, he draws nearer and nearer, his teeth a thin gleaming edge in the darkness, until Lucas, stumbling, sits backward onto the bed, dislodging a notebook he'd thrown onto it in the morning while packing his school bag. He kicks it with his heel under the bed as Eliott leans over him. "We don't need those."

"What? What're you saying?"

Eliott silently holds up his right hand as his left dips to Lucas's fly and unzips it before undoing the button, crisply and without hesitation. His teeth, on full display, are piercingly white even in the semidarkness.

"What?"

Eliott replies by pressing his palm forward until it is a few inches from Lucas's face. "See. Not even a paper cut." He curls his thumb and strokes upward along Lucas's left cheekbone. Lucas feels the slightly callused skin leaving sparks of fire in its wake. "Very," Eliott's forefinger brushes Lucas's mouth, rests lightly on the notch between nose and lip, "very, very responsible."

Surprising them both, Lucas opens his mouth and takes in the finger, then another, and a third. He stands, still working his tongue against the pads of Eliott's fingers, as Eliott closes the distance between them; his jeans slide down, then down again, until they rest, cold and clammy, around his knees.

They clasp each other and quiver together when they feel each other's eagerness. Eliott withdraws his fingers one at a time from between Lucas's lips, stoops, and replaces them with his tongue. Panting, Lucas begins to let himself be bent backward, then jerks as he stumbles, caught in the manacles of his own pants. With an impatient click of his tongue, he thrashes until they descend to his ankles. Eliott, laughing softly, leans down and helps Lucas drag his feet out of the pile of soggy denim. The streetlight slides like melting butter over his naked back and the small indentation at the base of his spine, right above the dove-gray waistband of his briefs. Lucas gulps.

"Easy now, easy."

"Wasn't this a race?"

"That part's over," Eliott says. He's back upright, close, closer yet, and again they're touching. "Now we shouldn't rush." Goosebumps spread over Lucas's shoulders, down his back, past the overburdened seam of his underpants, and over his thighs.

"Who won?" He can barely hear himself over the seismic churn of his pulse in his ears, but Eliott smiles, half of his face in the bar of light from the window.

"A tie, of course."

"A tie?"

"Yes." _À égalité. In equality._ Lucas inhales. He has only a half-moment to wonder just how much more experience Eliott has with boys—real ones, not two-dimensional headless torsos on a phone screen—before Eliott puts one hand, three of its fingers still soft and wet from Lucas's mouth, around Lucas's hipbone. "Are you scared?"

 _Of course_ , he thinks. "Not at all," he replies. The expression on Eliott's face is blotted out by darkness as he presses against Lucas and tips both of them backward onto the bed, which utters a single groan of complaint. "Are you?"

"Not at all." Eliott kisses Lucas's throat, jaw, cheek, ear, leisurely. They do not speak for some minutes. Lucas, closing his eyes against the sensations, gropes blindly, marveling at the warmth of Eliott, the suppleness of the flesh of his shoulders, the delicacy of his clavicles.

And then Lucas brushes the back of his hand against Eliott's erection. As though shot, he twitches, eyes now staring open at the shadowy face above him, which says, "Hmm?"

There's something pleasing about hearing Eliott's voice so raw, almost rasping—pleasing too to Lucas's own hard-on, which now, he ruefully admits, qualifies as the most raging one he can remember. "You okay?"

"Yeah?" Lucas wets his lips. "Yes."

"Why'd you stop?"

"I—um, is it—can I—"

Eliott puffs an amused breath against Lucas's forehead. "Dammit, you weirdo."

"Well—"

"Yes, very good, do continue, sir. I would like you to place your hand on my dick, ah, I mean my penis." Eliott is laughing outright now, having let his head slide so that he faces Lucas's profile. "If you please."

Lucas turns to roll his eyes at Eliott, but is stunned as soon as their gazes meet. Eliott's mouth is still broad with amusement. His eyes are hooded and look almost heavy. "Also, thank you."

"Wait, what? I haven't—haven't—"

"Just thank you. Thank you that you're here, with me."

"Who's the weirdo now?"

Instead of answering, Eliott seizes Lucas's wrist with one hand while shoving at his own waistband with the other.

 _In equality_ , Lucas hears, in ten thousand echoes in his mind, and reaches to join in the effort to separate Eliott from his briefs. They don't get very far, because as soon as Lucas's palm meets the firm hot skin of Eliott's cock, Eliott also grabs a handful of Lucas, hard. The rumpled and slightly sodden black cotton of the damn boxer briefs that have been cutting off Lucas's circulation for the better part of two hours, drawn around the most tender bit of his exposed cockhead, squeeze from his mouth a noise that barely sounds human.

"Ah," pants Eliott, "bit tight."

"Yeah."

"No," Eliott's chuckle turns into a little moan, "I mean on me."

"Oh," Lucas unclenches partway the fist he'd made without thinking when Eliott had seized him. "Sorry, I—" He is interrupted by Eliott's lips, teeth, and tongue, which make a rapid conquest once again of his mouth.

Time begins to drip past in a strange syrupy way as they, mouths cleaved together, bid slow adieu to their underwear. Lucas's disregard for the metronome had always been the despair of his piano teachers, and now he can't help rutting against Eliott's fingers, can't help speeding his hand's slide around Eliott, faster and harder until Eliott laughs into Lucas's mouth, pulling a little away, and nibbles at Lucas's lip. This slows Lucas down, but only until his fast-beating blood and the sharp lances of pleasure flowing from Eliott's languid fist overwhelm him again.

He doesn't know which cycle of this sweet torture they're on when Eliott draws away more completely, releasing him, pulling free of Lucas's hand, finding footing on the floor.

"Ah," Lucas says feebly, trying to sit up. It could not last, of course. Something would always come between them, always. "El—"

"Hush." Eliott's voice has dropped fully into that terrible, beautiful, throaty register now, and Lucas hastens to clamp the hand that had been just on Eliott onto himself before he loses control. "I'm just—do you have lotion, something?"

"Lotion?"

"Yeah—or oil?"

Feeling like his brain has been stirred with a spoon, Lucas can only reply, "Are you hungry?"

Eliott is totally quiet for several seconds, facing the window, during which Lucas succeeds in thrusting himself into a sitting position. "Eliott?" The crash of Eliott's laughter is like the peal of thunder in the Petit Ceinture; Lucas jumps again, this time to totter unsteadily upright. "I just mean—there's oil in the kitchen? Olive and—and vegetable?"

"Lu—cas," Eliott chokes out between waves of mirth, bent over, his hands planted on the desk. "You're—unbelievable."

"What?" _At least_ _he's not angry_. "Why? Aren't olive and vegetable, uh." He has to tighten his hand still more around his disobedient dick, because Eliott's face, still loose with laughter , is also shining with tears, and for some reason— _God, you're sick, sick_ —the sight makes Lucas's balls spasm with excitement. "Very normal?"

"Dude, no." Eliott says, a few straggling _haha_ s tumbling out with each word, wiping at his face with the back of a hand. "I mean to _use_." He suddenly pinches Lucas's cheek. "Unless you're _actually_ tryin' to pull it right off me."

"No! Wait, you mean, ah, lube?" This sends Eliott into a fresh spate of giggles. "Shh, Eliott, dammit, you're gonna wake Lisa up." He circles to the side of the bed nearer the window, hand still keeping a firm hold on himself; as he expected, his dumb crotch twitches as he gently bumps Eliott away from the desk. It's like his dick has turned into some kind of dowsing stick attuned not to water but to Eliott. "I got some."

"What, what the fuck's it doing in there?"

Lucas tries to ignore how dangerously close Eliott, _all_ of Eliott, is behind him, as he stoops and jabs his left hand into the desk's middle drawer, slapping down the pens, scissors, and slips of notebook paper he initially encounters haphazardly all over the writing surface. Finally, his hand closes around the spherical lid of the little bottle, secreted in the back of the drawer when he'd first moved in.

He can't remember for a moment why he'd bought it in the first place when he gets back up and faces Eliott. Lucas feels pierced like a criminal by those eyes. Perhaps Eliott can see everything inside him, see what he'd thought, as he showed the red-and-purple bottle in the shopping bag to the guys hooting and clapping outside the store: _whoever she's gonna be, because there's gonna have to be a her sooner or later, maybe if I drench her in this shit, maybe it won't be that bad_.

Eliott traces his fingers around the hubs of bone at the tops of Lucas's shoulders. "Hey?"

Flinching, Lucas lifts his hand, the bottle feeling deadly in his palm, like the garish shell of a shotgun.

"Oh, sweet." Eliott raises the bottle to the light of the window, squinting. "For Her Wild Side, huh?"

"Are you gonna open it or are you gonna just stand there laughing at me?"

Eliott replies with a cool level look at him, lids drawn low.

Lucas can't decide what he feels; all he can be sure of is that he'd do anything to rewind time, swallow what he just said, or at least make it a joke and get Eliott to actually laugh again. So he resorts to force, like he always does when he doesn't know what to do, and throws himself facedown, hard, across the bed. It complains more loudly this time. After a second, Eliott sits down on its edge and strokes the backs of Lucas's ankles with a finger.

"You never opened it."

"Yeah. Never needed it." Eliott's finger now taps Lucas's calf, tickling inch by inch upward.

"Never tried it, you mean." The bottle makes a crinkling hiss as Eliott breaks the cellophane seal. "So, does your wild side feel ready? Don't worry," Eliott murmurs, draping himself without warning atop Lucas, forcing an _oomph_ from the smaller boy. "Won't turn you into a girl."

"Hah." Lucas exhales forcefully under Eliott, hoping he sounds appropriately coolly amused and not once again at risk of immediate climax from the velvety sensation of Eliott's cockhead kissing the fold under his left ass cheek and the almost-but-not-quite-rough-enough grind of his dick against the sheets. "That's transphobic. And misogynistic." He's slurring like he's just chugged a six-pack by himself, but at least the effort of all those syllables keeps him just shy of the point of orgasmic inexorability.

"Well, if you like, we can try that some other time." Eliott scrapes his teeth against the helix of Lucas's ear. "But I was just saying, I've tried this brand a couple times and—" Lucas's strangled squawk is out of him before he can shut his jaws around it; Eliott has coated himself with the lube and, under its aid, eases effortlessly between Lucas's thighs. "Oh, sorry, must be cold."

Mustering his final strands of lucidity, Lucas grumbles, "Why do you keep thinking I'm cold?"

"Let's get under the covers, hm?" They tug and twist together. By the time they're under the top sheet, Lucas is sweaty and shaking a little, propped on his elbows and knees, and Eliott, hot as flame, still above Lucas and rubbing a little between his legs, is reaching a cold, slick hand toward his cock. "Ah, El—cold!"

"Aha, so you admit—it—after—all." Eliott snaps his hips steadily, in time with his words and with his gliding hold on Lucas, who is groaning freely into a pillow, heedless of the spit and sweat dampening it. The sound of their flesh striking and parting is profanely wet and so loud that Lucas dimly expects Lisa to clatter into the room in a panic about floods or earthquakes, or more likely both. But even the noise can't arouse Lucas's fear, for now; each neuron and tendon feels wire-taut as he strains, resisting the inevitable.

"Un—real," Eliott grinds out. The poor bedframe has gone directly into full riot mode, now. "You—are—un—real."

Lucas turns his face slightly away from the stifling safety of the pillow, feeling like he's being throttled by sensation. " _Fuck_."

"Yes." Eliott's chuckle is only a little breathless, but the rhythm of him driving against Lucas has long since ceased being gentle. "Ah—'m close. Gon'—beat you—to it."

Lucas moves his reluctant mouth, but "Thought wasn't a—" is all he gets out before he practically bites a hole in his lip, trying not to scream as he comes all over Eliott's hand. "Shit, oh shit," he stammers, collapsing forward, and feels Eliott falling—not mildly this time—on top of him. Through Eliott's cheek, pressed into his shoulder blade, Lucas feels the tightening of Eliott's jaw, the click of those perfect teeth closing, and then a frighteningly strong rictus that folds Eliott hard against his back. Between Her Wild Side and the ridiculous, pent-up explosion from his own dick, so powerful that he's trying to prod himself discreetly to make sure nothing broke, Lucas can barely feel the fresh spurt of wet warmth against his balls.

They lie still, turned onto their sides under the crumpled sheet, Eliott cupping Lucas from behind like an open hand, both of them breathing unsteadily. It's not the first time he's wished it, but this time, with a fervor he'd never felt, Lucas pleads with the universe for time to stop. Everything is so quiet that it seems, momentarily, that it had worked. But then Eliott says, sounding like he's ninety percent asleep, "Wasn't a what?"

"Hm?"

"You thought what wasn't a what?" Eliott's hand lifts from Lucas's side for a cold moment, returns with what appears to be the entire contents of the box of tissues on the desk, and commences indolently mopping at the mess rapidly turning sticky on Lucas's stomach and thighs.

"Ah, uh." _Simmer down_ _, fucker,_ Lucas thinks to himself as the blood floods again into his face, God knows why, seeping this time toward his tumbled hair. "I—let me do it." He paws at Eliott's hand and the cloud of Kleenex it holds.

With a snicker, Eliott maneuvers the cloud away, raises it high above them. "Tell me what you were gonna say!"

"Fuck, nothing. Nothing important. Gimme." Eliott drops the arm held aloft, pulls it tightly against Lucas's chest, turns him over, slides Lucas's left knee between both thighs; with Eliott curled like this, they are nose to nose. The streetlight slants across their faces.

"Everything, everything's important," Eliott says.

Scoffing, Lucas tries to meet Eliott's gaze and hold it, but, finding it difficult to breathe after approximately two seconds, fixes his stare on a corner of the desk directly behind Eliott's head where the veneer is flaking from the wood beneath.

Eliott smiles. "So, tell me."

"I was saying," Lucas mutters, "that I thought you said it wasn't a race."

Eliott laughs against Lucas's mouth. "And it's not!"

"But you said you'd beat me to it."

"Ah, _you_." Eliott's eyelashes flicker against Lucas's cheekbone. "No firsts or lasts here."

"Well," Lucas says, trying to sound frivolous, trying to hold at bay Eliott's words and the sensation of vertigo that wells up in his throat at hearing them. "That _was_ definitely _my_ first time on the wild side." He snatches at the tissues, and Eliott lets him have some. They daub at their bodies without speaking.

*

**SATURDAY 01:08**

The masses of clumped paper fall heavily into the plastic-lined wastebasket, with a sound like wind-flailed branches, or heavy rain. He trembles when Eliott draws the sheet and the duvet over them.

"Cold again?" Eliott inclines himself halfway, reaches behind him. "Ah, one fell on the floor, shit." He sits fully upright, but is soon back under the duvet's bubble of warmth, his hand, wrapped in Lucas's t-shirt, drifting down Lucas's arm. "Yours."

"Underwear?"

"I'm fine without. But they're on your side anyway."

"Remember, roommates," he says with mock sternness, straining toward the floor, both grateful for the banter and obscurely sorrowful that the dizzying, frightening, bottom-knock-out-ing note in Eliott's voice has faded. He hooks his fingers around the puddled briefs, reels them into the bed, silently thanking deities he doesn't believe in that they had landed mostly on top of a hot-air vent. By the time he has wrestled himself back into his underwear, he is content to fall asleep with Eliott's breath heating his crown, the back of Eliott's hand tender against his cheek, remembering Eliott's voice, accompanied by the crunch of leaves in the dark, saying "the first."

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Please drop a comment and let me know what you think. The production, cast, and acting in SKAM are a rare bit of beauty in a dark world, and (hopefully) entertaining y'all is just my attempt to keep that beauty in the forefront a little longer.
> 
> For a totally different flavor, please check out my other offerings to mes fils stupides.


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